


Four Men in a Pub Quiz

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Deductions, M/M, No cheating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-19
Updated: 2012-02-19
Packaged: 2017-10-31 10:10:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is challenged in a pub quiz. Let's see who wins, shall we?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Men in a Pub Quiz

Four Men In A Pub Quiz

John Watson leaned forward over his drink, pointing his finger at Sherlock Holmes, sitting next to him. “I bet... Okay, him, right?” He pointed at a man on the other side of the bar. “What’s his middle name?”

His other companions laughed. Mycroft, Sherlock’s elder brother, had a dark pint of stout in front of him, and seemed oddly relaxed, wearing his dark blue overcoat with the velvet collar and one of his usual three-piece suits. The handle of his umbrella was hooked over the edge of the table near his left hand. On his right side sat Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, currently taking a large, ill-timed drink from his pint of London Pride, and almost choking at John’s proposal. He managed to set his glass down and swallow before he laughed, clearly pleased by the look on Sherlock’s face.

“You see?” John went on, starting to laugh a little himself. “It’s all very well, you going on about what you can deduce about someone's job from the kind of tissues they use. But if you're looking for a specific piece of information, you're back with the rest of us.”

Mycroft looked across at his younger brother, smiling tightly but saying nothing.

“Oh, I don't think so,” Sherlock said, taking a calm sip of his beer.

Greg laughed again, sliding back in his seat to watch. “Yeah? Go on then. Do your thing. Deduce his middle name.”

Shelock tipped his head. “His clothing and posture indicate military, haircut confirms. Too tall to be a plane pilot. A little too well-paid to be army, too young to have made officer yet. I’d guess RAF. He’s mentioned Odiham twice -”

“Three times,” Mycroft corrected quietly, lifting his glass.

Sherlock paused, studying him briefly. “Three times.”

“No helping!” John protested, shaking his head at Mycroft.

“Oi! Silence, or I’ll have the court cleared,” Lestrade agreed in his best deep, loud authoritarian voice, and then ruined the effect with a guffaw.

“He’s also mentioned Harrod’s. Odiham is a military airfield, so why has he mentioned Harrod’s? We know - as Mycroft will attest - that Harrod's has a helipad on the roof, and only helicopters are stationed at Odiham. A military man isn't likely to visit Harrod's for an afternoon of shopping. He's been speaking excessively loudly as if he has trouble hearing. Been somewhere loud then, quite recently, his ears haven't adjusted yet. They wear ear protection while flying, so louder than that. Where are you likely to find noise like that around a helicopter pilot who's just landed at Harrod's? Airport. Now which one? City doesn’t allow helicopters, Heathrow fits best going by the state of his shoes. Flying from Heathrow to Harrod’s is a rich man’s trick, or someone pressed for time. Ambassador, or some other kind of diplomat most likely. Mycroft was late getting here, but Lestrade even later. Diplomacy kept Mycroft at the office, road escort possibly delaying Lestrade. Korean diplomat in the papers after wife stopped for shoplifting in large London department store. That gets me enough for an online search... Ah.” Sherlock held up his phone, waved it around the table as though  saluting them with incense. “No signal.”

John and Lestrade burst out laughing. Even Mycroft put his head down snorting, smiling. John began to applaud, and the other two joined in. “Bravo!” Sherlock even smiled, and almost laughed, trying to hide it behind his drink.

“But you did fail,” John pointed out when he’d caught his breath. 

“If it's that important to you I can step outside and find you his mother's sister's middle name as well.” He shrugged dismissively. 

“No, no, that was plenty for a pub quiz. Brilliant.” John was grinning proudly, a half step away from slapping Sherlock on the back. “Absolutely brilliant.”

“If you allow technological assistance,” Mycroft said, “I could get you his family's national insurance numbers and his third cousin's favorite ice cream.” 

This caused a brief pause, and John and Greg met each other’s eyes, and dissolved again in surprised delight. Lestrade slapped the table, covering his face with the other hand. “God, the pair of you! Shameless!” 

“It’s genetic,” John sighed, wiping his eyes. “I mean, search engine, fair enough, but...” He giggled again.

Lestrade set his glass down hard on the table, and spread his fingers out on either side of it, his laughter falling away. “Right. _Cedric,”_ he announced firmly into the pause. “And his son's name is Billy.”

“H...what...?” John looked at Lestrade, so surprised he seemed alarmed.

“His middle name.” Lestrade pointed at the man. “You’re right about him being a pilot. But it wasn't Heathrow. It was Glastonbury. Splashed all over the papers, got papped getting snogged by that singer, Miss Googly.” He gestured with one hand, shaking his head.

“Lady Gaga,” John corrected absently, too stunned not to.

“That’s the one.” Lestrade nodded. “When we got here, earlier, I went to use the gents’, and heard him on the phone to his son Billy, tuckin’ him in for the night. And I saw his ID at the bar when I was buying this round,” he added as an afterthought. He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock for emphasis. “A little bit off on the details, but you would’ve got there in the end. See,” he went on, leaning forward to explain to Sherlock, “I got out of that escort thing because I had a date tonight.”

“You had...a date?” John shook his head, as mystified as he’d ever been when Sherlock cut loose.

Lestrade couldn’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s face. There was a smile there, just around the eyes, the way his lips were fighting to hide it. Lestrade nodded at him once, savoring it. “So there you are. Cedric.” He sat back.

John looked around the table for an answer. Mycroft’s head was tipped to one side as his brother met his eyes with the slightest of nods, approvingly. Greg sat back, smug as anything. “Hang on,” John said. “You’re dating someone named Cedric?”

Greg laughed again, once: a dirty, relaxed sound from the back of his throat. “Your round, Sherlock.”

  



End file.
